


This Gun's For Hire (Even if We're Just Dancing in the Dark)

by beetle



Category: Star Wars, Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Assassins & Hitmen, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Dark, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Developing a Conscience, Fanart, First Kiss, First Meetings, I'm soooooooo sorry guys, Last Kiss, M/M, Make of the ending what you will, Mentions of Jabba the Hutt, Mentions of Jessika Pava, Mentions of Kes Dameron/Shara Bey, Mentions of Muran, Mentions of Snap Wexley, Mentions of a Fett, Not A Fix-It, Not Happy, Stormpilot, Strangers to Lovers, True Love, True Love Too Late?, True Love's Kiss, mentions of phasma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-18
Updated: 2016-12-18
Packaged: 2018-09-09 13:31:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8892589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beetle/pseuds/beetle
Summary: Formerly titled "Dancing in the Dark." Poe Dameron's a man of undead secrets, buried soul-deep, and quiet despair that's nibbling away at his very sense of self. He's a drunken, dissociative mess of a cardboard villain . . . one who finally hits bottom. The question becomes: Does he dig his nadir a little deeper and a little deeper, till he reaches his Hell . . . or begin the steep, slippery climb back up? Is that Hell inevitable no matter what he chooses? Are all endings the same whether he sinks or rises? What price the comfortably numb descent? And what price the painfully difficult ascent? What terrible price?Fortunately or not . . . he meets a man with some unwitting answers.For Stardusteddameron. Full prompt in end notes. Plus: FANART!





	

**Author's Note:**

> Notes/Warnings: AU. So very AU. Modern setting. Vague spoilers. Implied offscreen major character death.

** **

 

* * *

 

**1\. You Sit Around Getting Older (There's A Joke Here Somewhere And It's On Me)**

 

 

Late the next evening, he rolled himself upright in his creaking Murphy bed, ignoring his hangover and the churn of his empty stomach. He automatically reached for the near-empty bottle of _Jim Beam_ on his night table.

 

The angel on his shoulder began begging him _not_ to give in to slow despair, _yet again_ , by starting his “day” blind, stinking drunk. To _, for-God’s-sake_ , take up the great, difficult, and _long_ -overdue work of redeeming himself. Of getting his life together _right-the-heck-now_ —before mere existence got any more agonizing. Or before he landed in prison again.

 

 _It’s not too late, Peace,_ the angel said with hope as faded as a skein of old silk. It sounded like his _abuelita_ , who’d believed in him to her dying day, more fool her. _It’s_ never _too late to make a better choice._

 

The angel _was_ right. It’d never been _wrong_ , even when it was misguided and naïve. So he let go of the bottle of _Beam_. . . .

 

Moments later he was chuckling at the angel’s weary dismay, while swigging from a full-ish bottle of _Jack_ —it was, indeed, _a_ better choice—relishing the way it burned away _everything_ , even disappointed sighs.

 

He didn’t _need_ no stinkin’ _devil_.

 

**2\. Man, I'm Just Tired And Bored With Myself. Hey, There, Baby, I Could Use Just A Little Help**

  
His—unsavory—business taken care of, near-abouts dawn he strolled into a diner not far from his place. He’d passed it a million times and never gone in. It’d always seemed a bit as if it’d be like walking into that [Hopper painting](https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/a/a8/Nighthawks_by_Edward_Hopper_1942.jpg).

 

 _At least the place ain’t called_ Phillies _, for Chrissakes,_ he thought, gritting his teeth and stepping into _Maz’s All-American_ , shaking off the chill of mid-fall as he did.

 

He was one of two other people in the joint, including the counter-lady—tiny, frail-looking, could’ve been in her fifties, could’ve been in her eighties . . . hair dyed a weird orange-y red, face so smile-creased and wind-burned, it was tough to tell her age—and a young black guy bent over the computerized jukebox, picking songs and shaking his _gape-worthy_ ass to Sly and the Family Stone.

 

The counter-lady, started singing along in a surprisingly brassy, mostly-in-key voice. She caught sight of him and waved him in with a big, welcoming smile. Disconcertingly, she reminded him of his _abuelita,_ with those obvious dentures and that misplaced enthusiasm at seeing him.

 

Nonetheless, he opted for a seat at the counter, rather than a booth, to his angel’s delight.

 

 

**3\. They Say You Gotta Stay Hungry. Hey, Baby, I'm Just About Starving Tonight**

 

 

“Back in a flash, hon,” the counter-lady had said after pouring him a coffee, black, without being asked. Then the small woman stepped from behind the counter, singing once more, to join the young black guy at the jukebox.

 

He didn’t realize until his stomach was growling, his patience had worn thin, and _Dance to the Music_ had begun its third go-round, that the jukebox was on the fritz.

 

Sighing, he found himself staring at the guy’s perfect ass. He’d stopped shaking it, as if he, too, had grown sick of the song.

 

Finally, the counter-lady huffed and unplugged the jukebox. The guy shrugged apologetically in the silence. He had a strikingly handsome profile

 

“Sorry, Maz.” His voice was low, smooth, and pleasant. “It may be time to get a new jukebox.”

 

“Pah!” The little counter-lady moved briskly to her post, stopping in front her other customer. “Nothing’s _wrong_ with _that_ one! It’s only twenty-five years old!”

 

“So’m _I_ , and if _I_ sang _Dance to the Music_ , nonstop, _my_ boss’d get rid of _me_ , too!” The guy faced the tiny counter-lady— _Maz_ —and his fellow customer.

 

The guy’s eyes met said customer’s, and—

 

—one empty coffee-cup shattered on the floor.

 

**4\. You Can't Start A Fire, Worrying About Your Little World Falling Apart**

 

By the time Maz’d swept up the shards—she’d refused his dazed offer of help and the young black guy’s—he was staring dead-ahead and barely breathing.

 

Maz took the shards into the kitchen and he could feel the guy’s curious, gaze.

 

“So,” the guy finally said as Maz reappeared, wearing _insanely_ thick trifocals and wiping damp hands on her checkered apron. Not glancing over at the guy for oh, so many reasons, he swallowed and nodded, as if answering a question.

 

“What can I get you, Finn, dear?” Maz asked, blinking now-huge eyes at the young guy, before glancing at the pile of stomach-acid and future cirrhosis said guy’d sat _right next to_.

 

“The usual, to go, Maz.” That smooth voice was relaxed. _Unsuspecting_.

 

Maz nodded, her gaze swinging to Finn’s left again. “And you, Mr., er. . . ?”

 

Flushing for some reason—Finn was _staring_ at him again, all bemusement and interest—he hunched his shoulders in his navy pea coat and managed to maintain eye-contact.

 

“Dameron. Poe Dameron,” he mumbled, then kicked himself. Not that it’d come to anything, but he hadn’t given anyone his actual name since he was Finn’s age. “Um. I’ll have another coffee and, uh, I guess a slice of that cobbler. It’s not peach, is it?”

 

“Apple,” Maz—and Finn said, smiling, from the sound.

 

He cleared his throat and nodded at Maz again.

 

“Okay, I’ll go wake Chewie and have him get your order ready, Finn. Mr. Dameron—”

 

“Poe . . . please.”

 

“Right. _Poe_. I’ll have your coffee and cobbler in a trice.”

 

When Maz moved toward the coffee-maker, he finally dared to glance at Finn. The other man was still looking at him, still smiling.

 

“What?” he demanded of Finn a bit harshly. The other man grinned and leaned in close.

 

“ _Nevermore_ ,” he quoted, as if imparting a secret, and he . . . _Poe_ . . . laughed. For the first time in years, maybe. Since the last person who’d _thought_ they’d surmised the origin of his first name.

 

Muran, maybe? Or Jess Pava? Or . . . or even Snap?

 

Didn’t matter, he supposed. They were all dead. _Long_ dead. And there was only _one_ person to blame, really . . . and he was rotting in the Ninth Circle of Hell.

 

Momentary levity _gone_ , Poe smiled, cold and shark-like, his eyes as dead as all his friends. _Finn’s_ eyes widened and his breath seemed to catch in dismay.

 

“Peace-On-Earth,” Poe whispered.

 

**5\. There's a Joke Here, Somewhere, and It's On Me.**

 

 

“I . . . I beg your pardon?”

 

Letting just a hint of dark mirth touch his dark _eyes_ , Poe faced forward in time to get his coffee and cobbler, immediately digging into the latter as Maz hustled off into the kitchen.

 

“I wasn’t named for the poet, though you’re not the first to assume I was. _Peace-On-Earth Xavier Dameron_ is my full name. Mom and Pops were hippies. _She_ came up with the name, but no one’s called me that since—” _since she died_ “—since I was nine. Everyone just calls me Poe.”

 

 _Or any one of a dozen aliases, Mr. Oliver Josephs. Or is it Orrin Moses? Or Oscar Isaac? What fake name are we wishing we’d used, tonight, hmm?_ the angel snarked, both bitter and panicked. Poe let a genuine smile touch his eyes for a moment, though Finn wouldn’t be able to see it.

 

 _None of them. Though I don’t suppose it matters, now,_ Poe told his brooding, regret-filled conscience with resigned calm. _Jabba’s boys are probably tracking me down as I shovel down this cobbler. They’re gonna find me before the sun comes up. Probably Niam Fett, or that ex-Special Forces captain with the pale eyes—Phasma-something. But by the time the birds start to sing, I’m gonna be sans fingertips and teeth, and plus an extra hole in my head._

 

Another snort from the angel. _Yes, well, it’s not just_ you _going to that great, rotisserie below-ground, now is it? You’ve got an_ obligation _, Peace, to—_

 

“’M not _obligated_ to do a goddamned thing, Jimminy,” Poe muttered into his coffee.

 

“What was that?” Finn asked tentatively, warily. He was no longer leaning close to Poe, or even looking at him. As if some sort of survival instinct had kicked in and warned him against tempting fate or luck or _whatever_ stepped between cute, clueless guys with nice asses who’d pissed off Jabba DeHutt.

 

“You’re too decent for your own good, Finn,” Poe noted with that same, deathly calm, like a graveyard at twilight. He scraped up the last of his cobbler crumbs and goo, and licked the fork clean. As last meals went, it was pretty satisfactory. And the coffee wasn’t bad, either.

 

“What—how—you don’t even know me,” Finn said as if equally offended _and_ surprised that he was replying at all.

 

“And yet, you’re not denying what I said.” Poe laughed, and dug out his wallet. Slapped a fifty on the counter. “That’s for us both. Dinner’s on me.”

 

Finn was gaping when Poe finally looked at him, his round, dark eyes wide with confusion and puzzlement. Poe chuckled. “Have a good night,” he wished the doomed young man, even as the angel railed and raged throughout his psyche about injustices and unfairness.

 

 _Don’t tell_ me _about injustice and unfairness_ , Poe thought at it mildly. Meanwhile, Finn was shaking his head in disbelief.

 

“Who _are_ you?” he asked, searching Poe’s face as if looking for familiarity or something. Whatever he was looking for, if he didn’t find it in ten seconds, he’d _never_ get another chance to.

 

“No one special. Just a . . . well-wisher.” Poe shrugged again and with a lazy salute, strode past a once-more-gaping Finn.

 

“Wait—what—where’re you _going_?”

 

“Nowhere _you_ wanna be, kid. Trust.” At the door, however, Poe looked back to find Finn staring at the fifty on the counter. “Unless you wanna join me in that alley across the street? Maybe get felt-up and receive the best blowjob of your life? I don’t got anywhere to be till the horizon lights up.”

 

Whipping around to face Poe, goggling, Finn shook his head _no_ , still agape. Poe pouted, though the regret he felt was a token, as he hadn’t _really_ expected a _yes_.

 

“’S what I thought, hot-stuff. Have a good day.”

 

“Wait—”

 

“I really can’t be here once the sun rises.”

 

“What’re you, a _vampire_?” There was a weirdly hysterical edge to Finn’s voice. A mirthless sort of amusement.

 

“Sure. That’s as good a monster to be as any. _Hasta luego_.”

 

Out in the chilly pre-dawn air, Poe glanced west, toward his shitty apartment . . . then started walking east, toward his last sunrise.

 

 

**6\. This Gun's For Hire . . . Even If We're Just Dancing In The Dark**

 

 

Before first light kissed the sky, Poe sat in a bus shelter, still warm from the coffee and cobbler. In his hands was a picture printout.

 

Like so many attractive people, Finn _hadn’t_ photographed well. But more than well enough for Poe to recognize the . . . _his_ Mark.

 

His two-fingered salute to fucking Jabba and his cronies.

 

His doom.

 

His redemption. Or at least, so the angel claimed. It’d been M.I.A. since the diner.

 

It'd refused to accept what _Poe_ already knew: Finn may not have died by _Poe’s_ hand, but that didn’t mean he was _safe_. Didn’t mean that, had he known he was on Jabba’s kill-list, he could stop counting out the moments left to his life with an egg-timer.

 

Either Fett or Phasma or some other hired gun like Poe—until very recently—had been, would get the kid. Put a bullet right between those pretty eyes.

 

Which Poe had been primed to do, mere hours ago, as Finn exited _First Order Publishing_.

 

According to Jabba’s intel, the Mark often stayed at work late, then still started his days there at a little after dawn.

 

 _Well, not today, he won’t,_ Poe thought wryly, crumpling the printout and leaning back against the shelter wall. He closed his eyes on the coming dawn.

 

It was mere minutes till someone sat next to him heavily. They’d made no attempt at stealth when approaching. And why should they? Poe wasn’t in any position to defend himself. He’d even tossed his gun into the river after his . . . crisis of conscience.

 

“Don’t draw it out, Fett,” he sighed tiredly. “Or is it Phasma?”

 

“Actually . . . it’s _Finn_.”

 

Surprised for the third time in one night, Poe smiled, but didn’t open his eyes. “Hi, sexy.”

 

“Jabba sent you after me, didn’t he?”

 

“Yup.”

 

Another sigh. “So why’m I still alive?”

 

“Because I’m a sucker for a cute face and pretty, dark eyes. And because the angel on my shoulder likes you.”

 

Finn groaned. It, too, sounded tired. “He’ll kill you for sparing me.”

 

“It would’ve happened, eventually. He doesn’t much like me.”

 

“If this’s the kind of assassin you are, I can see why.”

 

“Well. But don’t get used to bein’ alive, kiddo. Whoever he sent after _me_ is probably gonna plug _you_ , next.”

 

“I know.”

 

Now, Poe opened his eyes and turned his head. Finn was staring down at his hands, which were folded between his knees.

 

“Why’s he want you dead, anyway?” Poe asked, trying to sense something about this guy that would equal the kind of enemy Jabba would put out a kill-notice for. “What’s a guy like _you_ doin’ tangled up with DeHutt, anyway?”

 

Finn snorted and glanced at Poe, his eyes shining and brimming.

 

“It’s a long story. Maybe _too long_ , for . . . unless you _want_ half a shitty, depressing story to be the last thing you hear?”

 

“Sure.” Poe smiled, reaching up to brush away tears as they rolled down Finn’s cheeks. “We got a little time left, I figure. And I can’t think of any way I’d rather spend it. Well . . . I _can_ , but you already turned me down, so. . . .”

 

Finn chuckled semi-fondly and more tears rolled down his cheeks. “Horn-dog.”

 

“Nah . . . I’d be happy with just a kiss, truth be told.”

 

“Is that so, Peace-On-Earth?”

 

Poe rolled his eyes. “Well, if you’re just gonna poke fun—” but he didn’t get to finish his sentence because Finn’s lips, full, soft, warm, and dark-sweet like black coffee with a ton of sugar, were pressing his own. Instantly, moaning, Poe surged up into the kiss, tasting those sweet lips and, with a demanding push of his tongue, exploring that warm, wet mouth.

 

“I was _supposed_ to be telling you a story,” Finn gasped, breaking the kiss. Poe closed the brief distance between them again, slowly.

 

“Plans change,” he whispered. “Believe me: I know.”

 

All around them, the first rays and fingers of roseate-gold light stroked across the city, lighting up the bus shelter until the very air seemed to glow.

 

And still, Poe and Finn kissed, stopping neither for life-stories nor oxygen, sunrise nor the soft, nearby click of a disengaged safety.

 

#

 

 **You can't start a fire, sitting 'round, crying** **over a broken heart.**  
**This gun's for hire,** **even if we're just dancing in the dark--**  
**You can't start a fire, worrying about** **your little world falling apart.**  
**This gun's for hire,** **even if we're just dancing in the dark.**

 

END

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: Written for Stardusteddameron’s Prompt: "join me" for finn and poe? Not necessarily a song-fic (so much as it’s a lyrics-fic), but . . . titled from and heavily-inspired by [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ofVoNL6jnd4). The “join me” refers to a Tumblr prompt list, one of which was: [Leave a “Join Me” in my ask, and I’ll write a drabble about one character giving another character an offer [ _be it a proposal for an alliance, asking them to join them in an activity (you can get dirty if you want), feel free to specify._ ]](http://beetle-ships-it-all.tumblr.com/post/153260292940/drabbles-send-me-characters-and-a-prompt)
> 
> So . . . whaddaya think?
> 
> [Follow me on Tumblr](https://beetle-ships-it-all.tumblr.com/)!


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